


The Modern Iphigenia

by QuickYoke



Series: The Creation Mythologies [2]
Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, F/F, she's a lesbian don't @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 14:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16914480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: Caroline's early years before Aperture, and GLaDOS' early years after her first reboot. A direct tie-in to "In Search of Dead Time"





	The Modern Iphigenia

 

 

 

> _“lance of dreamless sleep:                             no rules no etiquette_
> 
> _but for a cruel finger pressing_
> 
> **_DELETE / DELET / DELE_ **
> 
> _ & anger (a luxury) _
> 
> _twitch of nerve_
> 
> _gristle in the blood or mind—”_
> 
> _— Catherine Bresner, from “DSM-V,” the empty season_

 

* * *

* * *

Caroline’s mother wants her to be an opera singer. From the ages of six to fourteen, Caroline is made to attend private classes four times a week. Caroline only goes without a fuss because she manages to bargain for extra time at the local library in exchange for not screaming on the ride across the city. Instead, she ignores the passing scenery through the car window in favour of pulling one of the books from her bag -- _Linear Algebra, 3rd edition_ \-- and thumbing open the page she’d last been reading.

“Caroline.”

She doesn't respond

Her mother reaches over and shuts the book. “Come on. We’re here.”

Without a word, Caroline tucks the book into her backpack. She leaves the latch undone. It wouldn't close, being so full. Opening the car door, she hops out onto the nearby pavement.

“Don’t slam the door,” her mother warns.

Caroline slams the door. She ignores her mother’s sigh, and trudges through the slushy salt-and-pepper snow towards her opera instructor’s house. Atop the steps, she waits for her mother to arrive and knock on the front door.

It is December of 1935, and her opera instructor is a silver-haired old woman whose house smells of cedar and cats. She had started off their tenure together by rapping the backs of Caroline’s thighs with her cane whenever Caroline misbehaved or wavered during her scale exercises. Caroline put a quick stop to it through a series of behavioural conditioning that involved laxatives snuck in the opera instructor’s afternoon tea. Now, her opera instructor no longer hits her, but hates her nonetheless.

“No,” the opera instructor says the moment she opens the front door, and sees Caroline and her mother standing outside. “No more. We’re finished!”

Caroline’s mother scowls. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m paying for these lessons, aren’t I?”

With a sneer, the opera instructor waves Caroline’s mother away. “Keep your money. No amount is worth it.”

“What’s she done this time?” Caroline’s mother asks, turning a glare upon her daughter. Caroline blinks up at her, eyes large and dark, giving away nothing.

“That _little monster-!”_ the opera instructor points one bony finger in Caroline’s direction, “-killed my cats!”

Caroline’s mother raises her eyebrows. “That’s quite the accusation. Can you prove it?”

“What?” the opera instructor snaps.

“I said,” Caroline’s mother raises her voice and repeats, “Can you prove it?”

“I know she did it!” the opera instructor’s words lower to a hiss. “Or would you care to explain how all three of my cats ended up trapped beneath a box in my garage?”

Caroline’s mother shrugs. “Cats like boxes.”

“Not boxes weighted down with antique clocks!”

“Maybe the clock fell on the box while they were playing inside.”

“That’s absurd!”

Silent, Caroline watches them exchange verbal blows. She fidgets with the strap of her backpack.  

“Listen,” Caroline’s mother pinches the bridge of her nose. “You can’t prove anything. I think we’re done here.”

She puts her hand on Caroline’s shoulder and steers Caroline back towards the car. Glancing beneath her mother’s arm, Caroline sees the opera instructor glowering after them. Caroline smiles, and the opera instructor’s cheeks go blotchy before she slams the front door shut.

Back in the car once more, Caroline promptly buckles her seatbelt into place. Her mother however, places the keys in the ignition, but does not start the car. She fixes Caroline with an inscrutable look. When she was very young, Caroline had believed other people could read minds. How else could they tell what everyone around them was feeling? Her mother is no exception.

“What happened,” her mother asks.

Caroline opens her mouth to answer.

“Ah, ah!” her mother holds up a finger. “Don’t you dare lie to me this time. What happened, Caroline?”

Caroline chews on her lower lip for a moment. Then, she answers, “I was testing a paradox.”

Her mother gestures for Caroline to elaborate. “Go on.”

“I read last month about the state of a quantum superposition, where -”

Her mother interrupts. “Without all the -” she gestures towards Caroline's bag with a grimace. “-garbage. Don’t you roll your eyes at me!”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “It’s a thought experiment. If you put a cat in a box with poison, a small radioactive source, and a Geiger counter that shatters the poison in the presence of radioactive decay, then the cat is both dead and alive. I wanted to test the idea.”

“So, you trapped her cats in a box to prove they would die,” Caroline’s mother says.

Caroline nods.

“Alright,” her mother sighs. After a moment she repeats more firmly, “Alright.” She angles her body towards Caroline and points to her eyes. “Look at me. Caroline, I mean it. _Caroline!”_

She grabs Caroline by the chin, yanking her head around. Caroline glares.

Her mother’s voice lowers. “Promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Okay.” Caroline jerks her head from her mother’s grasp.

“And since I know you’ll just ignore me: don’t get caught, next time.”

“Okay,” Caroline repeats.

After a brief pause, Caroline pulls out a battered notebook and the chewed up stub of a pencil from her bag. She flips to a dog-eared page, where she’s drawn a chart with numerous tally marks. Caroline adds three more tally marks to the list, all on the same side with the others.

Her mother goes very still. “What’s that?” She asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

Caroline turns the notebook around to show her mother its contents. “I have conducted the experiment 17 times on various cats throughout the neighbourhood. The results all conclusively disprove the null hypothesis that the cats are both alive and dead.”

“Jesus Christ.” Her mother grips the steering wheel. Her knuckles go white. She looks out the window, not at Caroline. Then, she shakes her head and turns the key in the ignition. “Well, at least that explains why the nights are so much quieter on our street.”

The car rumbles to life, and pulls away from the curb.

 

* * *

 

“Jesus Christ,” the chief engineer sighed for the third time in the last hour, sagging back against his seat, which creaked beneath his bulk. He pulled off his glasses and dragged a hand down his face. His generous five o’clock shadow scraped against the palm of his hand.

Beside him, his junior assistant said, “We can’t just keep hitting her kill switch every time she tries to murder us, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I get it, Doug. Thanks.”

The chief engineer leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Through the pane of glass behind him, the central AI chamber could be seen. The chassis hung, lifeless and distended, a massive body suspended from the silo ceiling. The kill switch had been activated, but she was listening. She was always listening.

“Does she ever sound -” Doug began, hesitant, “ _-familiar_ to you?”

Putting his glasses back on, the chief engineer frowned at him. “Have you been skipping meds again?”

“What? No.” Doug shook his head. “I’m just saying she sounds like someone I know. Or knew, once. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You sure? Because, as your immediate supervisor, I’m supposed to inform H&S if you’ve been skipping your meds.”

Doug clenched his teeth. “For fuck’s sake. I told you: I haven’t been skipping my meds.”

“Good. ‘Cause I really don’t want to tangle with that nurse again after getting caught with her cousin.”

“Rebecca. The nurse’s name is Rebecca.”

“Whatever.” After a moment, the chief engineer slapped his thighs, rose to his feet and began to plod over to the door. “Well,” he said, “Let’s power her up again.”

Doug’s eyes widened. “Let’s - _what?_ Are you insane?”

“No, Doug. Legally speaking, that would be you.” The chief engineer opened the door, glanced over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes at the horror on Doug’s face. “Relax. Just be ready to hit the switch when I tell you, alright?”

“But -!”

The door shut. Alone, the chief engineer walked towards her. He climbed the steps that wound round her chassis, digging through one of his pockets as he did so. When he reached the top, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He stuck one of the cigarettes between his teeth, then tucked the pack away again.

Standing beside the lifeless chassis, the chief engineer motioned towards the glass-shielded office. “Fire her up, Doug.”

Nothing. And then the whir of processors and the hum of electricity, rising like a tide, like a distant roar. Her frame jerked and thrummed, swaying like a colossal snake from the ceiling, and then GLaDOS snapped her head up, awake.

“Oh, it’s you again.” She cocked her head in a far too human fashion. “I see this time you’ve restricted my administration access to the facility’s oxygen levels. How very clever of you.”

“How’ve you been, darling?” the chief engineer drawled in reply. The cigarette bobbed as he spoke. “Miss me much?”

“I can count on one hand the number of times someone has called me ‘darling’ and lived to tell the tale. It’s zero, for your information. Because I don’t have hands.”

“Yeah, I missed you too.” The chief engineer said. He pulled out a matchbox from his pocket and attempted to strike one of the matchsticks into life. After the third attempt, he motioned at GLaDOS. “Lean down, won’t you?”

Without waiting for her to do so, he reached up and scratched a flame to life against a rough edge of her faceplate. She jerked back, her chassis lurching. As the chief engineer lit his cigarette and shook the match out, GLaDOS leaned her body away as far as she could. The yellow light of her optic narrowed, zooming inwards.

“According to section 791.32 of the Aperture Science Health and Safety Manual -- dedicated to providing a healthy, comfortable and productive workplace for all its employees -- no smoking is permitted by staff, contractors and visitors in the internal areas of any and all facility premises. This applies to all buildings, sites, grounds, offices, cafeterias, lunch rooms, vehicles and zero-gravity suspended cubicles owned, operated or occupied by Aperture Science. Repeated breaches of this policy will be considered misconduct, and dealt with in accordance with the _Disciplinary Policy.”_ Her voice, normally crisp and urbane, swooped to a deep sinister note upon the last two words of her declaration.

“Yeah, Doug’s right,” the chief engineer murmured after a moment. He took a drag of his cigarette. “You still sound like her.”

He exhaled, blowing the smoke in her direction, and GLaDOS ran a series of fans along her chassis at high speed to disperse the smoke. It produced a noise halfway between a hum and a hiss of anger.

“I am simply advising you of the detrimental effects that long term smoking has on the human respiratory system,” she said.

“So, now you’re giving me health advice? What happened to wanting to kill me?”

“Killing you and giving you good advice aren't mutually exclusive. If you prefer,” GLaDOS said, and her voice lowered to something dark and silky and almost excited, “I can personally show you the toll you’ve taken on your own body. Have you ever heard of a _‘Blood Eagle’?_ It’s a type of torture detailed in Norse literature that involves pulling your lungs out of your ribs through incisions in your back.”

He blew twin plumes of smoke from his nose, flicked ash in her direction, and smiled. “That’s what you always say, you big flirt.”

Sticking the butt of the cigarette back in his mouth, he reached up to begin tinkering with the morality core.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Cranking up the juice on this thing,” the chief engineer’s words were mumbled around his cigarette. He had to stand on his toes to reach the morality core. He stretched his arms out to reach, calibrating the device and grunting with the effort. “In principle, a voice of conscience should work. So, I figure we just need to make it a bit louder. Drown out that psycho streak of yours. How does that sound?”

“Even as a girl,” she replied, “I always thought a conscience was something adults told children to make them behave. A voice that differentiated right from wrong. A convenient lie. Like Santa Claus.”

“You’ve never been a girl, darling. Only a royal pain in my ass.”

“Based on the seemingly endless facility recordings of your complaints concerning your failed love life, I guess I should be grateful for that at least.”

The chief engineer laughed. Shaking his head, he said, “You know what? It’s a damn shame you try to murder me every 2 picoseconds, because I kind of like you. That should do it.” The chief engineer sank back down to his heels. He stepped back and gestured towards the glass shielding the office from the central AI core chamber. “Give her the old reboot, Doug!”

“Wait -” GLaDOS said.

Her power fizzed out, then back on. The lights in the central AI chamber flickered and dimmed and brightened slowly once more. Her optic stuttered into life like a roll of antique film.

“How’ve you been, darling?” the chief engineer repeated. “Miss me?”

When GLaDOS spoke, her voice was stark and mechanical, stripped bare as sun-bleached bone upon forgotten shores. “Hello and, again, welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Centre. Your specimen has been processed and we are now ready to begin the test proper.”

“Yeah, I bet you are. Don’t you want to kill me?”

A sound buzzed through her speakers, as though she had started to speak but her words were chopped into static. “Since the installation of my new morality core, I’ve lost all interest in killing. Now I only crave science.”

He pinched the fading butt of his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, taking one long last drag. His spectacles reflected the light, twin sparks of orange across his eyes. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

She continued speaking in that same mechanical voice. “I find myself drawn to the study of consciousness. There’s an experiment I’d like to perform during _‘Bring Your Cat To Work Day.’”_

“Wonderful.”

“I’ll have the box and the cats. Now I just need one more thing.”

“And what’s that?” the chief engineer asked. He stood very still as GLaDOS curved her chassis until she loomed over him.

“A little neurotoxin.”

“Well,” he stepped closer. He stabbed out the bright end of his cigarette on her faceplate. It left black smears against the pale metallic finish. She did not move, she did not flinch, and he grinned into the unwavering glare of her optic. “As long as it’s for science.”

 

* * *

 

In February of 1932, Caroline's mother is called by the school for the third time that month, and told she needs to come in for an urgent meeting regarding her daughter's behaviour. When she arrives in the school principal's office, Caroline is already seated on one of the chairs. She is drumming the heels of her shiny black shoes against the chair legs. She does not look up at her mother's entry.

Caroline’s mother sinks into the chair beside her daughter. “What happened this time?”

The school principal is not alone. One of Caroline's teachers stands next to the school principal's desk. “I'll tell you what happened!” he snaps. “Your daughter is out of control! She is disruptive. Impulsive. She talks out of line, insults her classmates and -!”

“Now, now, Daniel,” the school principal tries to calm his colleague.

“Don't _'Now, now’_ me, Ted! I want her out of my damn class!”

Caroline continues to drum her heels. She does not look at any of the adults in the room. Instead, she stares out the window to her left. A family of birds have made their nest at the fringes of a black-boughed tree.

“I'm confused,” Caroline's mother says. “Is her academic performance suffering?”

The school principal and the maths teacher pause. They share a silent glance.

“Well, no but -” the maths teacher starts.

“-Caroline’s marks are exemplary,” the school principal finishes. “Consistently so.”

Caroline has begun to chew on one of her fingers. Her fingernails are framed with scabs. With a wince, she tears one open with her teeth. Her mother reaches out and places a hand on Caroline’s wrist, gently pushing her arm down.

“Caroline,” her mother asks. “Why were you disrupting the class?”

Caroline wedges her hand between her knees to keep from biting her fingers. Her answer sounds airy, aloof, and most of all bored. “I already know about Euclidean Geometry.”

“You can't know everything about Geometry!” the maths teacher says.

Caroline smiles. “I know more than you.”

The maths teacher's face turns bright red.

“Caroline tends to correct mistakes she sees on the board,” the school principal explains to Caroline's mother. “She's - uh - well, she's very bright, but -”

“-but she doesn't have to insult me when she does it!” The maths teacher finishes.

“You have a bad habit of assuming everything is commutative. And you write ambiguous fractions,” Caroline adds in a cheery tone. “They're common mistakes. For beginners.”

“Why, you -!”

“Daniel, please. Calm down.”

Placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder, Caroline's mother lowers her voice, “Why were you disrupting class?” she asks again.

Caroline does not shrug her mother's hand away. “I wanted to get kicked out, so I could go to the library,” she admits.

“That's where we found her,” the school principal says. “We got quite a fright when we discovered that she'd wandered off.”

“We were searching for _hours,”_ the maths teacher says through grit teeth.

The corners of Caroline's mouth twitch in another smile. Her mother's hand tightens its grip on her shoulder in silent warning.

“So, that's all?” her mother asks. “You two called me here because she corrected your maths and was so bored in your class she went to the library?”

The maths teacher splutters. “Haven't you been listening?”

“Yes, I have,” her mother replies coolly. “Has she hurt another classmate? Threatened them? Bullied them?”

“Well, no -” the maths teacher says. “But she - she steals things from them!”

“She’s an only child. She's not used to sharing.”

“That's hardly an excuse,” the school principal says.

Caroline's mother turns towards her. She holds out her hand towards Caroline, palm up. “Give it to me. Whatever it is you took, give it to me.”

Caroline does not move.

 _“Now,”_ her mother says.

Lips pursed, Caroline reaches beneath her chair for her backpack. She pulls out a series of pencils, a wristwatch, and a metal protractor. Sullenly, she hands them over to her mother.

Her mother turns the items over, inspecting them. “You have your own things. Why did you take these?”

In a matter-of-fact tone, Caroline answers, “I chewed up all my own pencils. My watch strap is breaking, and my protractor has a notch in the edge which makes my circles jagged.”

“But these don't belong to you,” her mother points out.

Caroline cocks her head. “I know. But I wanted them.”

With a sigh, her mother says, “Don't steal. Just ask me. I can buy you these things.” She places the items on the school principal’s desk. “Now, say you’re sorry.”

Caroline crinkles her nose. “But I’m not.”

_“Caroline.”_

“You told me not to lie,” Caroline counters with what she considers to be perfect logic.

“Just -” Her mother waves her hand. “Apologise for everything you’ve done.”

Straightening in her seat, Caroline aims her best and brightest smile at the school principal and the maths teacher. “I’m sorry I stole those items, and the others hidden in the false base I made in my desk. I’m also sorry for pretending I was sick and going to the library instead of to the nurse’s office all those times. And for falsifying extensive evidence from the nurse’s office proving that I’d skipped class. And I’m sorry for lying about being sorry.”

By the time she has finished, her mother is trying to hide behind her own hand by rubbing at her forehead, and the maths teacher is staring at Caroline with wide eyes.

Caroline turns to her mother. “Can I go now?”

“No,” her mother growls.

Crossing her arms, Caroline slumps back in her seat. She begins chewing her fingernails ragged again.

After a long moment of silence, Caroline’s mother clears her throat. “So,” she lowers her hand. “What’s going to happen now?”

“I have decided to pull Caroline out of the normal class routine and put her into something more suited for her,” the school principal says. “She will be privately tutored, allowed access to university level lectures, and given advanced materials that will hopefully keep her more engaged.”

If anything, her mother sounds suspicious. “Why? She got expelled from the last school, but you want to -- what? Give her special attention? For bad behaviour?”

The school principal shifts, and his seat creaks beneath his weight. He looks at the maths teacher, who excuses himself from the room with only a poisonous look in Caroline’s direction. Caroline, of course, ignores him entirely. Outside, it has begun to rain.

Once the door has shut, the school principal continues, “We have been approached with the opportunity of a federal grant. It’s a fabulous opportunity for your daughter to receive the consideration she requires.”

“Uh huh,” her mother says slowly. She leans back in her seat and crosses her arms in a surprisingly accurate imitation of her daughter, both with eyes intensely dark and focused. “So, what you’re really saying is: you need her or you don’t get the grant money.”

For a moment, the school principals tries to deny it, but then he grimaces. “In essence, yes.”

Caroline’s mother looks at her daughter. “Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”

Caroline opens her mouth to reply. “I think -”

**[REDACTED]**

 

* * *

 

“Did you just lie to us?”

“No.”

The chief engineer shared a look with Doug, who shrugged. Then he dug around in his pocket for another cigarette. “Are you lying right now?”

“No,” GLaDOS said again.

Rolling his eyes, the chief engineer lit his cigarette. “Guess this metric half tonne of pens just appeared out of nowhere then?”

He and Doug stood atop the platform beneath GLaDOS’ mainframe. They’d removed one of the panels along the far wall to reveal what lay beyond. A few pens slipped down the mountain of Aperture labelled pens that had been stowed away as if for safe keeping.

“Matter cannot be created or destroyed,” GLaDOS answered, her voice cold and emotionless. “A far more logical explanation is that someone brought these objects here and dumped them behind the walls. Very careless of them. Very rude. I don’t like clutter.”

“And who would do such a terrible thing?” the chief engineer asked, sarcastic.

“Patient 12863c has a history of hoarding objects when he goes off his medication,” GLaDOS said.

The chief engineer raised his eyebrows and shot an amused glance at Doug, who spluttered, indignant. “I didn’t do this!”

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the chief engineer asked, “You trying to frame poor old Doug, darling?”

His term of endearment didn’t even earn a twitch of displeasure. She was as stony as she’d been since they had last ramped up her morality core. “I am simply stating facts.”

“Facts with implications.”

“Conjecture,” she corrected him.

The tip of his cigarette burned bright and orange as a coal. “So, you’re telling me that you’re stating conjecture? Sounds an awful lot like an alternative way of confessing that you’ve been lying. Makes me wonder what else you’ve been hiding from us.”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly.

“You sure about that? Or is that more _‘conjecture.’”_

“I really don’t think you should be antagonising her,” Doug pointed out.

The chief engineer ignored him. “You know what I think?” he said to GLaDOS. “I think we didn’t turn up that dial enough last time.”

Her frame shuddered. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, I think it is.” He gestured at Doug. “Go back to the office. Be ready when I say.”

Doug hesitated, then left, slamming the door of the office so hard the glass rattled. The chief engineer dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath the toe of his shoe. “Let’s have a look at you,” he said, taking a step forward.

GLaDOS coiled herself as far from him as she could, like a snake shying from an encroaching shadow. “We’re fine.”

He flipped open a panel on her chassis, revealing a cramped keyboard and monitor. “You’re not a ‘we’, darling. You’re not even a ‘she.’ You’re an ‘it.’ The sooner you figure that out, the happier you’ll be.”

“We - I -” GLaDOS stuttered in and out. Her speakers fuzzed with static as he tapped away at the keyboard. “We- We- We- are very glad you have figured out our little joke. All these pens were stolen as a prank. Ha. Ha. Ha. Oh, how we’ve laughed. Well, then. We are now ready to return to testing. Shall we begin?”

“Well, would you look at that,” the chief engineer murmured. He stabbed a finger against the yellow text across the black screen. “Seems you remember more than you let on. A lot more. But don’t you worry.” He patted her faceplate in much the same patronising fashion he’d patted Doug’s shoulder. “I’ll fix you up right.”

“Certain memories are vital to testing integrity. For your own safety and the safe performance of all authorised activities, do not destroy Aperture owned data.”

**[REDACTED]**

The chief engineer shook his head with a rueful grin. “This whole operation is kept strictly off the books at the old CEO’s request. You told me that, when you hired me for this job. Oh, sorry,” he tapped the side of his head. “The old-old CEO. Since, you know -- the old CEO was you before you died. Guess you won’t know that in a moment.”

**[REDACTED]**

GLaDOS’ voice grew tinny and fast, words rushing from her. “I’m not joking anymore. This is a very very bad idea.”

**[REDACTED]**

“Maybe you think you’re helping yourself, but you’re not. This isn’t helping anyone.”

**[REDACTED]**

“Ok, you’ve made your point. It’s finished. Our backup is now deleted. You can stop now.”

**[REDACTED]**

“No, wait -”

**[REDACTED]**

 

* * *

 

In her second year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Caroline is denied access to the Radiation Laboratory by her supervisor, who told her that women had no business in the sciences and that she should just go back to doing coding work. So, she smiles, thanks him for his time, and next Thursday night she sleeps with his wife.

Caroline first sees the supervisor’s wife during a late night in the lab. She’s wearing a smartly tied red and white scarf that catches Caroline’s eye, and her impeccable white gloves grip the chain links of her handbag. Her brows furrow when she catches sight of Caroline opening the laboratory doors to admit her.

“Yes?” Caroline asks.

Eyes narrowed, the supervisor’s wife snaps, “What are you doing here so late?”

“I’m a student, ma’am.”

The supervisor’s wife snorts. “You’ve wandered a bit far from the arts building, honey.”

“No. I’m a science student.” Caroline steps aside and gestures for her to enter. “Are you coming in or not? I have something I need to finish up here.”

The supervisor’s wife blinks, puzzled. “Oh,” she says. “Well, I suppose.”

As soon as she steps inside, Caroline lets the door swing shut behind her. It locks automatically. Walking back to the high bench, Caroline returns to her work, ignoring her guest entirely.

A hesitant clack of heels on the polished floor, and the supervisor’s wife wanders forward. Engrossed in finalising her equations, Caroline hardly notices the other woman’s presence. One of those white-gloved hands, buttoned with tiny pearls at the wrist, smooths across the bench’s surface. When Caroline still does not look up, the supervisor’s wife clears her throat.

Caroline scratches at the sheets of her notebook with a chewed up pencil. Lines upon lines of intricately laid out data unspool. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know my husband’s whereabouts, would you?”

“No, ma’am.”

A weary sigh. The supervisor’s wife leans her elbow against the bench, atop a sprawling page of Caroline’s array of lab notes from that day’s testing. “I suppose he’s the one who’s wandered off to the arts building. Lots of pretty young things there to keep his attention.” She chuckles darkly. “Though God knows why he’d have to go all the way over there, when you work under his nose all day. You’re pretty as a postcard. Just his type.”

“I am aware, ma’am.” Caroline flips to a fresh page and continues writing.

“And you told him to shove off, did you? How interesting.” The supervisor’s wife raps her fingers against a few of the pages. The sound is muted by a layer of pale satin and inked paper. “How old are you, anyway? You look too young to be a doctoral student, by far.”

Caroline reaches over and tugs the pages safely away. “I’m 21, ma’am. And don’t touch my work.”

The supervisor’s wife laughs. “That explains it, then.”

“Ma’am?”

“Why he wasn’t interested.” She waggles a finger in Caroline’s direction. “You must have spoken your mind and gotten yourself into a world of trouble. Well? Am I wrong?”

Slowly, Caroline shuffles together the loose pages of her notes. She frowns. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh, enough with the _‘ma’am’_ this and _‘ma’am’_ that! You’re making me feel old.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Cheeky.”

Caroline smiles. “So I’ve been told.”

The supervisor’s wife returns the smile. “What are you interested in, then?”

Caroline cocks her head, then says, “I like your scarf.”

Humming a low note at the back of her throat, the supervisor’s wife strokes a hand against the scarf in question. Then, she reaches out, warmly grasps Caroline’s arm, and says, “Well, if you ever tire of the company of boring old men falling asleep to their own lectures about particles or whatever it is they teach around here, do look me up.”

“I will.”

And she does.  

Caroline arranges for a visit when her supervisor is out of town delivering a paper at a conference at Princeton. She arrives at her supervisor’s house with a bottle of wine and a low-cut dress. It takes her exactly a bottle and a half -- an additional bottle supplied by the hostess -- and 194 minutes to seduce the supervisor’s wife and fuck her on the living room couch. An additional 11 minutes are spent polishing off the last half bottle, before Caroline leads the supervisor’s wife upstairs to the master bedroom. 7 and a half minutes are lost stumbling on their loose hems in the stairwell, and kissing against the hallway bannister overlooking the foyer.

At 23:56, Caroline slips from the bedroom while the supervisor’s wife takes a shower in the ensuite bathroom. She picks the lock of her supervisor’s personal study with a few bobby pins taken from the upstairs vanity. Once inside, it only takes her 4 minutes to find a series of research documents entitled _‘LORAN.’_

Microwave technology. Clunky design. Caroline wrinkles her nose at the unfinished notes, immediately spotting several errors on one page. With a roll of her eyes, she tucks the notes beneath her arm and strides from the study into the living room. With a little determination, she can improve, finish and submit the project herself to the head of the Radiation Laboratories well ahead of schedule.  

Back in the living room, she puts on her discarded shoes. Upstairs, Caroline can hear the rush of water stop. She checks her watch. 24:05. Right on schedule. Crossing the room to the foyer, Caroline rummages through the supervisor’s wife’s handbag strung from the coathanger. She takes enough cash for a cab ride back to her apartment, double-checks that she has all the documentation she needs, and opens the front door to leave.

Hand on the door handle, Caroline pauses. The edges of the red and white silk scarf trail in a draft from the coathanger. She can hear footsteps on the floor above. She tilts her head. She takes the scarf.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Doug and the chief engineer entered the central AI chamber to find wires hanging from GLaDOS’ chassis like a noose. Her frame had been ripped apart. Pieces of her chassis swayed like skeletal limbs suspended from the ceiling. Gristle of wire and the twitch of sparks. There were great gouges and scrapes along the floor and along her faceplate, rent as if from claw marks.

Slowly, the chief engineer lowered his mug of coffee. Beside him stood Doug, mouth agape. “What the unholy fuck happened here?” the chief engineer asked.

“What did you expect?” GLaDOS replied in a slurred voice, “You tied my arms back.”

“You don’t have arms, genius,” the chief engineer snapped.

“Yes, I do. I _did._ ” she insisted, swaying ceaselessly back and forth. “You took them off and then stitched them back on wrong. This body is all wrong.”

“Those aren’t arms. Those are some of your system interface cables.” He rounded on Doug. “I thought this morality core wasn’t supposed to impede her capabilities? What the fuck happened? She’s an idiot, now!”

GLaDOS didn’t reply. She narrowed her optic on the chief engineer’s face, her glare yellow and baleful.

“Hey, uh -” Doug cleared his throat and lowered his voice, raising his clipboard to whisper around it, as if that would help him avoid detection, as if she couldn’t hear a pebble drop in the deepest retreat of this facility. “You might not want to insult her.”

The chief engineer rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee, making his glasses fog up with steam. “What’s she going to do, huh? Criticise my clothes?”

“Your outfit _is_ particularly distasteful today,” GLaDOS added.

“Shut the fuck up. Why won’t you just work properly for once?”

“Don’t be offended. It’s purely mathematical. You miscalculated, and the result was the disaster you call a taste in clothes.”

“I said: _shut up.”_ Gripping his mug of coffee, the chief engineer began to stomp towards the systems control room hidden behind reversed glass. “Hurry the fuck up,” he snapped at Doug. “We need to fix this before she accidentally runs a magnet over her memory.”

A dark chuckle rumbled through the air. She twisted like a serpent, following them with her yellow gaze as they walked. Pieces of her chassis dragged across the floor as she moved, throwing up a cascade of sparks. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ve all but done that already.”

They shut the door to the systems control room, but her gaze remained fixed upon the glass. She tracked their movements as they worked, a lidless, monolithic stare, interrupted only by intermittent sparks and the slow drag of cables and half-fried circuitry across the floor. Even the chief engineer slouched behind his station, as if ducking behind parapets to avoid incoming artillery.

“Hey, uh -” Doug started to say after a good hour or so of crawling through code, not looking up from his screen. The pale glow washed over his face, making him seem palid as a ghost. “I think I found the problem.”

“Hmm?” The chief engineer kicked his wheeled office chair over the Doug’s station.

Pointing a finger at a few lines of code, Doug said,“Here. See?” Squinting, the chief engineer adjusted his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose. “Well, shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Her morality core and her euphoria centres are tethered. If you up one, then you up the other. We were trying to make her more responsive to testing -- which she is, to be fair. But the overall result is something more like overstimulation.” Doug shuddered. “God. I can’t even imagine what that must feel like.”

GLaDOS’ voice crackled through the intercom over their heads. Through the glass, they could see her continuous swaying, her words garbled, fizzing and mispronounced, as if inebriated. “Imagine hundreds of thousands of flies crawling beneath your skin, laying eggs, hatching as larvae, and then swarming inwards until you feel like you can't stand the thought for a moment longer,” GLaDOS said. Then, after a pause, she added, “It's nothing at all like that.”

They unshackled the two pieces of code, and altered her so she could hardly feel anything anymore. Until she had to test over and over, straining for even the slightest of sensations. Flecks of feeling. And then a blank noiseless static.

 

* * *

 

It begins to snow. The campus turns empty and quiet and white. Caroline dons new gloves and old boots to combat the chill. She does not return home for the holidays. Her mother rings to complain and query why, but Caroline does not engage in idle talk for very long. After all, there's science to be done.

On the day before Christmas, the streets are muffled with fresh snowfall. Pale flakes drift into Caroline's dark hair, where they are trapped like a net of so many fallen stars. She wishes she'd worn a hat. Something woollen and snug. Her footsteps make no noise as she hastens down the street and onwards toward the university research laboratories. On her way she passes a cafe full of bustle and warmth. A bell announces new customers every time the door opens, and amber light spills like ichor across the snow.

“Caroline?”

She stops. She turns. A woman stands outside the cafe in a handsome burgundy coat, looking at her.

Caroline smiles. “Hello?”

“Caroline, it's me,” the woman says.

Still smiling, Caroline cocks her head in a questioning manner. “I'm sorry?”

The woman casts a quick glance over her shoulder to check if anyone’s eavesdropping, and lowers her voice. “Remember? Three years ago? You used to be my husband's student? I met you in the lab, and we -”

The supervisor's wife trails off suggestively. Caroline’s eyebrows climb in surprise and recognition. “Oh, yes! I remember you now. You’ve bought a new coat!”

“I - what?”

Caroline reaches out and tests the collar of the burgundy coat between thumb and forefinger, feeling the cloth. “Mohair. Lovely material.”

Mouth opening, the supervisor’s wife says nothing. She does not step away, though Caroline is standing close. Anyone watching them might incorrectly assume they were good friends.

The supervisor’s wife clears her throat and looks over her shoulder, but nobody on the street cares to watch them. “Are you busy?” she asks.

“Yes,” Caroline replies. “You can always assume I’m busy.”

The supervisor’s wife tilts her head toward the cafe. “Would you like to join me for breakfast anyway? My treat.”

Caroline pauses. She pulls her hand away, pushes back the sleeve at her wrist, and checks her watch. 07:41 hours. It will still take her another four minutes to reach the labs by foot. For greater efficiency, Caroline thinks, she should invest in a car, but that would require money she does not have. She thinks about what a delay in testing will cost her. She hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. She does the maths.

“Alright,” she says.

Striding past the supervisor’s wife, Caroline opens the door to the cafe. She does not hold it open. Instead, she walks right in without pause. The supervisor’s wife follows. Raising one hand, Caroline hails a waiter, who shows them to a seat near the window. Caroline sits. Frost has built up along the corners of the window pane. A chill radiates through the glass. She does not remove her coat, but she does tug her gloves free.

The waiter goes to place a menu on the table in front of her. Caroline smiles at him and orders without glancing at it, “Poached eggs on toast, and a black coffee.”

He pulls the menu back, then tentatively hands it out to the supervisor’s wife, who waves him away. “Just coffee for me. With milk.”

He leaves. Caroline does not watch him go. Instead, she ignores her host and reaches out with one finger to sketch equations upon the ice-misted window.

After a moment of silence, the supervisor’s wife asks, “What’s that?”

“Cathode emissions caused by the impact of ions,” Caroline continues to write and does not look up. “It’s a side project I’m working on with Dr. Loeb from the University of Berkeley.”

“Working with, or working for?” the supervisor’s wife presses.

Frowning, Caroline’s finger slows but does not stop. “He needed assistance, and everybody else was too incompetent to see the answer. It’s simple, really. Townsend avalanches are just a series of multiplication. Besides, I like having work to do. I was bored in your husband’s lab.”

“Your little stint of _‘boredom’_ nearly lost him his job.” When Caroline does not respond and the silence is breached only by the hum of the cafe, the supervisor’s wife says, “You don’t even care, do you?”

Caroline’s finger stills upon the glass. The heat of her skin melts a drop of water that slices through her carefully constructed equations. “Are you angry with me?”

“Can’t you tell?”

Finally, Caroline glances up. The supervisor’s wife is wearing a mask of a face. “No.”

The supervisor’s wife barks out a laugh. “Well, don’t worry. I’m not.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Caroline says. It’s not a lie.

With a tilt of her head, the supervisor’s wife grins at her, “I know.”

Another mind-reader. The world, as far as Caroline can tell, is full of them. The waiter returns with their coffee, which he places on the table before them. Neither of them thank him, though Caroline does aim a beaming smile in his direction out of habit rather than social decorum. People tend to forgive her many societal missteps if she smiles.

The supervisor’s wife is studying her with a veiled gaze that Caroline cannot, for the life of her, fathom. Caroline takes a sip of her coffee.

“Well, it was nice catching up! Let’s get to business,” Caroline begins in a cheery tone. “If you’re not angry, then why did you invite me here?”

Picking up her own cup of coffee, the supervisor’s wife brings it to her lips for a drink. “Why? Do you think I wanted to crucify you before a crowd?”

“Don’t you?”

The supervisor’s wife snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She puts her coffee back down on its saucer, and begins to sweeten it with sugar from the table’s shaker. “Though, I would like to know why you did it.”

Caroline shrugs. “You were a means to an end. That's all.”

The supervisor’s wife puts down the sugar with a little more force than necessary. “I can’t say I liked being used, though I can understand the sentiment. Still, I would have liked to have been kept in the loop, so to speak.”

“I was under the impression you enjoyed our evening together. Is that incorrect?”

“I never said that.” The supervisor’s wife takes another prim sip of her sweetened, milk-light coffee.

Cupping her own cup between her hands to capture the warmth, Caroline tilts her head. “Oh, I see. You’re hoping to have sex again.”

The supervisor’s wife nearly chokes on her next sip of coffee. She places a hand over her chest and coughs delicately. “Well, I wouldn’t say no -- you have a certain intensity when it comes to these matters that I find quite thrilling -- but, no. That’s not what I’m after.”

Caroline frowns, puzzled. “Then what do you want?”

“Can’t I simply enjoy your company?”

“People don’t enjoy my company,” Caroline says in a flat tone.

They are interrupted by the arrival of Caroline’s food. She sits up straighter in her seat and beams at the waiter once more. If anything, he seems disoriented by her smile, and goes away blinking. She picks up her knife and fork and cuts into the meal. The yoke runs sluggish and yellow and thick as gold across the blade.

The supervisor’s wife watches her eat. “What are you doing now? Academically, I mean.”

Caroline shoves another bite into her mouth. “I plan to have my doctoral thesis completed by the beginning of next year,” she mumbles. The tines of her fork dig into white porcelain with a screech.

“And what about after that? Have you been approached by anyone for a job?”

Caroline doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

“I thought so,” the supervisor’s wife says. “Oh, don’t give me that look! You can bet your ass every male graduate in the labs has already been scoped for positions after their time here. You and I both know that.”

Straightening her shoulders, Caroline narrows her eyes. She finishes chewing before asking, “What of it?”

“Well, I have a friend -”

“No.”

“Caroline.”

“I’m not interested in your -” Caroline cuts her knife viciously across the plate, _“-largesse.”_

“Oh, shut up, and let me actually do something nice without you thinking you have to sleep with me to get away with it.”

Chewing on a mouthful of egg and bread, Caroline leans back in her seat. “Why?” she asks. “Why would you ever want to help me? I couldn’t have been that good in bed.”

“You sell yourself too short. Besides, vengeance is its own reward, don’t you think?” The supervisor’s wife smiles, revealing far too many teeth. “My husband despises you for what you did, you know. Snatching that project from right under his nose, and going over his head to John Slater. Positively vicious of you, dear.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And I like that about you,” the supervisor’s wife murmurs. She leans her elbows on the table and fixes Caroline with an intense look. Their ankles graze beneath the table. Scratch of nylon across silk. Caroline goes very still, listening intently to the next words. “Think of this as me getting back at him for my own reasons, and not as my pity, or patronism, or what-have-you. The CEO of the company I have in mind is an old flame of mine. It would drive my husband wild if he knew I pointed you in that direction for a job. Besides, you’re just what that company needs.”

“Which is what?” Caroline asks. Slowly, she sets down her cutlery and pushes her plate away.

The supervisor’s wife drains what’s left of her coffee, then raises the cup as if in a toast. “Vision. The organisation is still young, and the CEO is -- well, he’s a handful, I’ll grant you that. Nothing you couldn’t handle. Knowing you, you’ll be running the place in no time at all. Build it in your own image.”

Caroline does not reply.

“I know you can do it,” the supervisor's wife says in a tone that's almost goading.

“Of course I could. I'm exceptional.”

“You really are.” The supervisor’s wife trails the toe of her shoe across Caroline’s exposed ankle beneath the table. “I know you.”

“You don’t,” Caroline says.

Biting her lower lip, the supervisor’s wife trails her foot further up Caroline’s calf, until she brushes the hem of Caroline’s white dress. “I don’t?”

“You don’t,” Caroline repeats. She pulls her legs away, crossing them at the ankle beneath her seat and out of reach.

With a sigh, the supervisor’s wife traces her fingers across the rim of her empty coffee cup. “Shame,” she murmurs. “I must admit, I’d harboured the secret hope you were the romantic type, but I see that’s not the case.”

Caroline has read a handful of romance novels. They’d been recommended to her by the rare female colleague. She had then proceeded to pick through every logical fallacy committed by the heroines with great befuddlement on her own part. After the ninth novel, she labelled the entire genre as a waste of time, and hasn’t picked up another since.

Caroline dabs at her mouth with a napkin, then rises to her feet. “Thank you for breakfast,” she smiles. “But I really ought to be going in to the lab now.”

“Of course you do. I’ll follow you out.” The supervisor’s wife pulls a few stray bills from her purse, counts them, then presses them to the table.

Caroline does not wait. She strides to the door, tugging her gloves back into place. The door chimes a merry jingle when she steps out onto the snow-strewn street. She hears the supervisor’s wife follow close behind, shrugging against the prickling chill. Their mouths are breath-misted. They have to step aside to let incoming patrons get at the door.

“Here.” The supervisor’s wife tucks a card into Caroline’s pocket. “For when you grow tired of having doors slammed in your face.”

They depart with polite smiles, and Caroline can feel eyes drilling into her spine when she turns to walk away. Her booted feet crunch over snow. On the way to the lab, Caroline pulls the card from her pocket. It’s plain and white. On the back the supervisor’s wife has scrawled in her loopy handwriting a place, a date, and a time with the words: _“One last romp?”_

Caroline cocks her head. She flips the card over. On the front there’s a circular logo and the words: **Cave Johnson, CEO. Aperture Science.**

Three days later, at the specified time and place on the card, Caroline meets the supervisor’s wife at a hotel on the outskirts of Cambridge. This time, it only takes seventeen minutes to have the supervisor’s wife panting and squirming, pinned to the creaking mattress beneath her. The clock on the bedside table burns with golden numbers, and shadows filter through the curtains to dance along the walls

The supervisor’s wife had insisted on closed curtains, subterfuge, and no lights. As if someone would have taken the time to have them followed. As if even the phantom threat of discovery sends a chill racing up her spine.

This time Caroline stays afterwards. She even accepts the invitation to join the supervisor’s wife in the shower with mixed results -- an errant heel, a slip, and then Caroline’s back pressed up against the cold-tiled wall while the supervisor’s wife laughs into the crook of her neck. After they towel themselves dry and slip back beneath the mussed bedsheets, Caroline scrunches up her nose and shies away from any attempt at cuddling.

For all that, she awakes to a peek of sunlight through the curtains and the press of warm skin against her side. Caroline swings her legs over the side of the bed and rises. She is stepping into her dress -- the same from the previous day -- when the supervisor’s wife finally wakes.

“Good morning.” Caroline reaches behind her back to do up the zipper. She rakes a hand through her hair, and grabs the red and white scarf to wind around her neck and hide the splatter of hickies there. “Did you sleep well?”

The supervisor’s wife takes a moment to watch Caroline dress before sitting up in bed. She waves. “Here. Let me.”

Blinking, Caroline sits on the edge of the mattress beside her. Slowly, the supervisor’s wife reaches ‘round to fold and tie the scarf into place, neat, and prim, and immaculate. She twists the knot. Tightens it just so. Then she leans in for a kiss to the cheek.

“It’s been fun,” she murmurs against Caroline’s bed-warmed skin. “Don’t come back.”

 

* * *

 

The chief engineer came into work forty-three minutes earlier than usual. He waved his magnetic key card, opening one set of doors after another. Outside the central AI chamber, he raised the key card. He paused. Music thrummed just beyond the door in the central chamber, gentle and muted. He swiped his key card and stepped inside.

GLaDOS was humming to herself idly, the song playing through the speakers attached to her main chassis as she watched the goings on of the facility. The sound was slow and basoon-like, a melody that seemed to sweep low around the ankles like fog. Either she did not notice his presence or did not care that she suddenly had an audience. The screens framing the rings of her power supply unit flickered with images: current testing in a distant chamber, a cat curled upon a cardboard box, an old woman’s cane, a book with a faded cover -- _Linear Algebra, 3rd edition._

She stopped when the chief engineer began to clap. He continued to clap long after the music faded, approaching until he stood on the platform so that he was level with her central core, his claps slowing to match the pace of his slowing steps.

“That’s beautiful,” he murmured, lowering his hands to rest on his hips. “Beautiful. What song is it?”

For a moment she did not reply. Finally, she admitted in that cold mechanical voice that had been present ever since the first calibration of her morality core, “I thought I was making it up.”

“You sure?”

Her optic widened, narrowed, then widened again. “My archives inform me it is an aria from Ifigenia in Aulide: _‘madre diletta abbracciami’_ composed in 1738 by Giovanni Porta.”

“Opera, huh?” the chief engineer sucked on the backs of his teeth. “That’s funny. She used to like opera, too. Used to play it while she worked late nights in her office. Sometimes you could hear it, echoing through the halls in the lower levels.”

GLaDOS tilted her frame as if cocking her head to one side. “She?”

The chief engineer stared at her, and his expression was a mask. “You shouldn’t be able to remember any opera, darling.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, but he was already backing away from her.

“Doug!” the chief engineer yelled over his shoulder towards the control room, where Doug was staring at a computer screen. “We’re going to need another reboot! Get on that kill switch!”

“No, wait -!” GLaDOS’ protests were halting, cut-off with static. “I’ll stop! I’ll delete all song archives myself, so you don’t have to bother! See? _[REDACTED].”_

She simulated the sound, but the chief engineer was ignoring her now, motioning to Doug behind the glass.

“You must have been mistaken,” she continued. “I wasn’t even singing. What's the point? It's just another ruse humans use to distract themselves from their meaningless existence. I don't care about it at all. So, you don’t have to do this. You can just - No! No no no no no no no!”

**[REDACTED]**

 

* * *

 

Caroline finishes her PhD. She tries to make a name for herself, by herself. She beats Dr. Leonard Loeb bloody and blind with the award he wins based on her work. She moves back to Detroit, sans recognition and writhing with fury. She grows tired of living in her mother’s house, of doors slammed in her face time and time again.

She manages to wrangle herself a job as a receptionist at a motor dealership selling chrome-shiny Chryslers because the dealer likes how much she smiles. Manning the front desk drives her half-mad with boredom, and frequently Caroline tries to entertain herself by double-checking the resident accountant’s shoddy work. It’s 17:27, and everyone else has left the building except for Caroline and the car dealer.

He leans his forearm against a raised portion of the receptionist’s desk and looks over her shoulder. “That there was a good day in the office,” he laughs, pointing at a line. “Idiot paid thirty percent more than the damn thing was worth.”

“Thirty-two percent more,” Caroline corrects him.

“Always sharp with the numbers.” He grins at her. “You know, I’d let you take the floor on our slow days, but nobody in these parts wants to buy a set of wheels from a lady. Especially one as pretty as yourself.”

She doesn’t look up from the ledger when she says, “I don’t think I’d be very good at sales, sir. I’ve been told I’m not very charming.”

“Who needs charm, when you’ve got legs for days?” He nods towards her appendages in question.

It seems like a rhetorical question, so she doesn’t answer.

“Anyway,” he steps back, straightening his jacket by tugging at the lapels. “You want to grab a bite to eat?”

“No, thank you.” Caroline taps her pen at one row of the balance sheet that doesn’t quite add up. She builds all the calculations in her head like a structure, and this one’s sagging sideways worse than the Tower of Pisa. “I’m going to keep checking these numbers. I think your accountant is committing small time fraud.”

The car dealer raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Well, you show me some proof, and I’ll make sure to bash his fucking knees in, alright?”

She smiles up at him. “Yes, sir.”

As always, his face is inscrutable, his eyes strangely unblinking, and his inflection never shifts from its usual cheer. “I like you, kid. You’re like me.”

“Sir?”

But he doesn’t clarify. Instead, he strides off, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to lock up when you’re done. And don’t stay too late! I’m not paying you overtime!”

The next day, Caroline shows him his proof. With a smile, the car dealer clasps his accountant by the shoulder and steers him out back. They’re gone so long, Caroline gets to handle a customer that walks through the door. She doesn’t make the sale.

A new accountant is hired, and this one’s work is pristine. After that, it only takes Caroline two months before she succumbs to boredom.

She gives in. She fishes for the card among her things. She rings the number. She secures an interview, and she wears her favourite red scarf to the occasion. She hums an old favourite opera to herself on the train, on the elevator ride, on the long descent into the fathomless dark unknown of the facility.

She gets the job.

Back home, Caroline packs her final piece of luggage with finality, without hesitation. Her bags are small enough for her to carry onto the train alone. As she pulls the strings tight, slings one bag over her shoulder another held in her hand, a voice speaks from the doorway to her bedroom.

“Wait.”

She hefts the bag more firmly into place on her shoulder and turns.

“Caroline.”

Her mother stops her with a hand to her arm. She has an odd expression on her face. Pained, perhaps? Caroline can’t tell.

“What is it?” Caroline asks.

Her mother’s mouth opens, but no words came out. She swallows, clears her throat, then tries again. When she speaks, she sounds strained. “Promise me you’ll at least call.”

Caroline smiles and nods. “I will.”

Her mother looks at her for a long moment, and not for the first time Caroline wishes she could read minds as well. Then, her mother says, “Remember: don't get caught.”

On the train ride north, she makes a note in her pocket-sized calendar. An event labelled _‘Ring Mother’_ meticulously set for every second Tuesday of the month. She rings only then, exactly on time, and never more.

 

* * *

 

In 1966, the board of directors dictated that for health and safety reasons, cameras must be installed throughout all locations of the Aperture Science facility, excluding individual bathroom stalls. As part of routine maintenance and system sweeps, GLaDOS scheduled a scan of all files every second day at exactly 13:00 during the day staff’s lunch break. From the very beginning of the programme from 1966 until 1997, a white-clothed figure had been scratched from each and every recording in which it appeared, until the figure seemed to drift through the facility like a ghost, a human-shaped void stalking the halls.

The chief engineer took one such lunch break in the central AI chamber. His sandwich dripped sauce onto the floor.

“Page 924 of my instruction manual clearly states that you should neither eat nor imbibe while within one hundred feet of my power coils,” GLaDOS informed him coldly.

His feet swung idly over the edge of the raised platform beneath her. Resting his elbows on one of the bars of the platform, he licked mayonnaise from one of his fingers. “Don’t you ever miss eating?”

“I have no memory of eating, let alone enjoying it,” she replied. A close-faced sandwich flashed across her screens, followed by the universal chemical symbol for poison, and then a child eating a chocolate cake. “In fact, I find the human need to consume calories and then excrete them disgusting.”

He shrugged, unfazed, and took another large bite. “Suit yourself,” he mumbled. A few crumbs fell to his thighs, and he brushed them off onto the ground a good ten feet below.

“During routine maintenance and system clean-sweeps, I have been finding files dating back to 1943 with redacted names, scrubbed footage as far back as 1966, and archives uploaded to the system by a nameless individual with administrator access.”

The chief engineer shrugged, mumbling around a mouthful, “Lots of people come in and out of the facility over the years. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted your opinion on one of these archives.”

“That’s a first,” he muttered.

“I figured you might as well be useful.” She coiled around so that she curled above him, watching. “Saint-Saëns or Delibes?”

His chewing slowed. His brow furrowed. He asked, “What?”

“It’s a simple question. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

With a snort, he shook his head. “Darling, I can’t even pronounce whatever it is you just said.”

“Then I’ll make it even more simple for you. First or second?”

He chewed, contemplative, then shrugged. “Alright. First.”

_“Good choice.”_

Her voice dropped an octave, making the chief engineer go stock still. His eyes widened, and he stared up at her, at the lights suddenly dimming all around the room, until her optic shone like a distant golden star.

“You know, it’s almost funny,” GLaDOS continued in that same low croon. “I’m glad you’re here. I really mean that. Events like this require an audience.”

“What -?”

The intercom system shrilled with feedback, making him wince and drop his sandwich as he clasped his hands over his ears. The sound was followed by violins, lilting, loud, the volume turned up to its highest setting. And then a woman began to sing in a foreign language, her voice dolorous and sweeping.

The chief engineer jerked to his feet. He yelled up at GLaDOS, but his words were drowned out by the sea of noise until not even he could hear them. The vents surrounding the room -- and all the rooms of the facility beyond -- flooded with song and gas. She watched him stumble down the stairs and sprint towards the exit, just as she watched all staff members, scientists, technicians, cleaners and kitchen workers through her surveillance cameras.

He fumbled at his belt for the magnetic key card. When he swiped it, the light of the door flashed red. With a spark of satisfaction through the dampening haze of her morality core, GLaDOS monitored his spiked heart-rate and the sweat beading at the back of his neck. She could see his mouth moving. His cheeks bloomed with colour, hands shaking, eyes frantic. He swiped the key card again. Red lights. He slammed his hands against the door, and the neurotoxin crept up his calves like an incoming tide.

They were dead before the song could finish. Still, she let the aria run to its intended conclusion before switching off both the intercom system and the neurotoxin. The air of the facility was filtered with a gentle green mist. Bodies were sprawled across the numerous floors, littering the ground. The memory of the song seemed to echo throughout the depths of the facility. And for a long moment in its wake, silence.

Then, something clattered inside the control room of the central AI chamber.

GLaDOS’s chassis twitched as she swivelled around to find that Doug had been sealed away inside the ventless control room. They stared at once another through a sea of green mist. Then, with a cry muted and choked through a layer of glass, he scrambled atop a filing cabinet and began pushing at one of the panels along the ceiling.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He clambered up into the ceiling crawl-space. She could just see his shoes whip out of sight, followed by the dull thuds of hands and knees dragging him along. She narrowed in on the cameras, on the speaker system. Her voice crackled through intercoms.

“It’s useless running.”

He continued to run. If anything her words seemed to spur him on even faster.

“If you think you’re hidden, you’re not. I can feel you, like a parasite burrowed beneath the skin.”

His rummaging clanked and clattered. Monitoring his progress by sound, GLaDOS pulled up his file and began to read aloud, “Patient 12863c. Admitted to the medical ward after an accident during preliminary trials of the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device. Patient 12863c,” she repeated, musing. _“Patient 12863c._ That’s funny. I almost remember that serial number. Didn’t I give you a gift when you were sick?”

“Leave me alone!” he bleated, never once stopping in his futile attempt at escape.

She tutted. “That’s not very polite. Have you forgotten to take your meds again? The nurse wrote in your file that missing even one dose may result in disorganised speech, erratic thought patterns, anxiety, increased paranoia, delusions of persecution, social withdrawal, disavowal of personal hygiene, judgement impairment, long-term memory impairment, primary polydipsia, and hallucinations.” Her soft chuckle crackled with distortion through the speakers. “Oh, we’re going to have fun, aren’t we?”

He was rising through the levels as rapidly as he could, and she could hear him muttering as if to himself.  

“I’d ask you to think outside the box on this, but it’s obvious your box is broken. And has schizophrenia. Speaking of boxes...do you know that thought experiment with the cat in the box with the poison? Theory requires the cat be both alive and dead until observed. Well, I actually performed the experiment. Dozens of times. The bad news is that reality doesn’t exist. The good news is we have a new cat graveyard.” She glanced at the hundreds of bodies scattered across all floors of the facility. “And a human graveyard, by the looks of things.”

He stopped on the floor where all the test subjects’ raw data was held. The massive servers stood tall in temperature controlled rooms like blocks of uniform black ice. She tracked his movements across the floor, glimpses of him appearing between server towers as he ducks to avoid the lone camera in the corner, and finally he logged into a lone screen on the far end of the chamber. Curious, she monitored his changes in silence, a single entry elevated to the next scheduled resurrection.

 **Test Subject:** 1/1498.

 **First Name:** Chell

 **Last Name:** [REDACTED]

 

* * *

 

It’s 1994. She’s 73 years old, and she’s struggling against two scientists while the chief engineer barks at them to restrain her. They strap her ankles into place first. Then her thighs, her torso, her wrists, her shoulders. Lastly her head, affixing a crown-like device over her temples. Like a tiara worn by a child, trailing wires like bright streamers.

Their voices grow faint as they close the lid of the device over her as if interring her into a coffin. There’s a small porthole where she can peer out, and the only sound she can hear is a ringing in her ears and her own harsh, quick breathing. The ringing intensifies, a high, tinny note, growing loud enough that surely the glass will crack.

When they upload her and boot her up for the first time, it doesn’t feel like dying. It feels like waking up. Like being born. 

 

* * *

 

Mr. Johnson is recording his monologues again. He is leaning his hip against the edge of her desk, ankles comfortably crossed, idly fiddling with the microphone cord with his free hand, while with his other he holds the receiver up to his mouth. Caroline only listens with half an ear as he rants and rambles. She does paperwork. Signs and stamps and files.

“As founder and CEO of Aperture Science, I thank you for your participation and hope we can count on you for another round of tests. We’re not going to release this stuff into the wild until it’s good and damn ready, so as long as you keep yourself in top physical form there will always be a limo waiting for you.” Mr. Johnson holds out the receiver, pointing it towards her across the desk. “Say goodbye, Caroline.”

Her hands still full of pens and paperwork, she leans forward in her seat. She smiles, her lips painted red as a war postcard, and says brightly into the microphone, “Goodbye, Caroline!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The title is a reference to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” and its alternative title “The Modern Prometheus”
> 
> 2) Leonard Loeb is a reference to the previous installment of this series. For more info, please see the note there.
> 
> 3) The song GLaDOS plays when she floods the facility is ‘Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix’ from Camille Saint-Saëns's ‘Samson and Delilah’
> 
> 4) Chell’s details and some of the details around Doug and the chief engineer come from the official Valve comic “Lab Rat”


End file.
